May the cosmic dust of silent solar wind collect slowly upon my shoulders,
so that one day I may have a form accrued over time,
unknown to my burning consciousness.
A life only possible when I remain still long enough,
Then, my gestures can be true.
Analysis doesn’t have the heart to put things back together,
Only love can do that.
Vicissitudes
There is a barrier, a layer of slag glass that protects me from the world, from experience, from others, from myself.
Suddenly, with no rhyme or reason, I make contact.
An akratic by nature, it’s beyond the reach of my will. If anything, my will seems in the way, and yet, it is contact all the same.
I’ve studied Whitman’s way, his wandering trail fades on a gentle knoll of meadow grasses overlooking the ocean and waterways. There, the wind and wispy clouds leave me in a Hayao Miyazaki dream.
How to exist in the interference, how to transform insulation?
Must we hover around the furnaced retort, allow the putrification?
In solutio,
Magnifico,
I am without reason.
Wisdom witnesses my birth.